I had suspected this for some time, but it wasn’t until today that I got the proof. I felt exactly like Don Corleone returning from the peace summit with the Five Families...
“Tattaglia is a pimp. He never could have outfought Santino. But I didn’t know until this day that it was Barzini all along.”
My washing machine is a jagoff. Let me explain.
In my last post, I mentioned that tomorrow is my marathon dress rehearsal. The plan was simple: launder the kit tonight, run the miles tomorrow. But as I stood before the porcelain beast, I decided to finally test a deep-seated suspicion.
I became assiduous. I turned every single item of clothing right-side out. Every tech-shirt. Every pair of running shorts. Every single sock. I spared only the washcloths. Clemenza was in my ear: “Turn the underwear. Leave the washcloths.”
Then, I let the cycle run. When the chime sounded, I opened the lid to find total Infamità.
All this time, it had been the one pulling the strings. The machine wasn’t just washing my clothes; it was gaslighting me. I was just a mammalucco in its little game. Upon inspection:
25% of the shirts: Inverted.
30% of the underwear: Inside out.
0% of the socks: These remained untouched. Maybe a little bit too untouched.
But the machine couldn’t help itself—it still had to “wet its beak”. It sent one lone running sock to that parallel universe where single hosiery and Pilot G2 pens migrate to, never to be seen again.
Bastardo!
It thinks it has weakened me before the big run. It thinks that by flipping my liners and hiding my socks, I’ll lose my focus. But now I know who the real enemy is.
Tomorrow, I run the dress rehearsal. The clothes might be clean, but the relationship is soiled.
Keep your friends close. Keep your washing machine closer.
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